Coyote
by P Chill Now
Summary: The only way to not be conquered by the Mojave is to become one with it.


"The name's Coyote."

The man looked at Coyote like he had just insulted his mother.

"Coyote? Is that all?"

"Yep, just Coyote. Don't blame me, you asked."

The man sighed, "I guess it doesn't matter what your name is. I just want the job done. You kill the guy and bring me his hand, and I'll pay you."

"That's the left hand, you said?"

He sighed again, "Yeah, but don't strain yourself trying to remember it. It'll be the hand with the scar on it. Very conspicuous."

"Our agreement was on two-hundred caps, right?"

The main looked at Coyote with a pained expression, "Yes, that is correct."

"Just making sure. See you in a day or two. Have my caps ready by then." Coyote said before donning his hat and leaving the man's office.

Coyote made his way out of the budding town. Primm, it was called. A few folks living in a blasted-out casino, and a corrupt sheriff who Coyote was just speaking to. Nothing special, really. However, the sheriff wanted one "Liam Stone" frying in the sand, minus his left hand. Coyote was willing to oblige the sheriff's request, for the right price. Coyote didn't care what Stone had done, or why the sheriff didn't do the job himself. As long as it paid, Coyote got the job done.

Coyote wasn't always a mercenary. Sometimes he was a guard for the Crimson Caravan, when he could find work for them. Other times, he would prospect in the Vegas Ruins. Whatever needed doing, Coyote just wanted his pay. More work meant more pay. More pay meant more bullets. More bullets meant more work he could do. It really was as simple as that.

Hold up. Something rustled in the bushes. Coyote dropped to one knee and swung the rifle on his back into his arms. He took careful aim at where he saw movement. Another rustle and Coyote pulled the trigger. A gecko dropped dead out of the shrub, its blood painting the rocks nearby. Meat was back on the menu.

Coyote had a fire going in no time. He skinned and gutted the gecko, saving its hide to be tanned later. The gecko's limbs were staked onto a spit and placed over the fire to roast. The sun was setting, and the roaring fire would keep away vicious wildlife for the night. Coyote took to repairing his equipment while his food cooked. The stock of his rifle was beginning to splinter, but some duct tape fixed that right up. Content with his own handiwork, he took a count of the ammo he had with him and cleaned his revolver.

The gecko was finished roasting right about when the sun was starting to disappear behind the Rockies. Coyote took great, ravenous bites out of the lizard flesh, as if that meal was to be his last. The meat that was left over was coated with salt, wrapped and tossed into his sack. Coyote added another log to the fire and propped himself up against a nearby outcropping of rock before unbuttoning his shirt and examining the day's damage. A surprise run-in with a cazador had left him with a long gash across his chest. The wound meshed with the other scars on his chest, all of various sizes, shapes, colors, ages and origins. Coyote retrieved a small sack of "healing powder" from his pack, and gently poured some into the open wound. He did his shirt back up just as the side-effects of the herbal remedy began to kick in. He allowed himself to fall asleep as the head-fogginess brought on by the potent mixture overtook him. He tipped his hat down to cover his eyes and drifted off into a deep slumber. The moon was bright and full that night and shone down on Coyote just the same as it did the landscape and all of the other critters in the desert. There really wasn't any distinction to be made between the man and the Mojave.

A howling raised Coyote from his sleep. He woke up quickly, gathering as much alertness as he could muster. A lithe, sandy-colored animal was investigating him, but Coyote couldn't quite tell what it was. Before he could focus on it, it yipped and pulled back. Coyote rubbed his eyes, and all was revealed to him. A pack of coyotes, his namesake, circled about him. They sniffed and barked to each other, deciding what to make of the man before them. Whether he was a monster or a morsel, they debated in their wild lounge. Coyote coolly eyed them as he slowly reached for his revolver. Sure enough, it was in his holster, on his hip, where he had last put it.

The coyote pack seemed to have reached a conclusion. They howled at him, seemingly with deep meaning, and then fled into the fleeting darkness behind them. Coyote didn't understand exactly what they said to him, given he didn't know the language of the prairie wolves. However, he did interpret their overall disposition. Theirs was a feeling of mutual respect, live and let live, if you will. They recognized that he was much like them, and not just in name. They were survivors of the wastes, and all children of the Mojave. The cruel desert sun was their father, and blood spilt on the burning sands, their mother.

Coyote rose to his feet and secured his belongings. The light of dawn was just starting to peak out from behind the horizon, and there was still a voyage to be made to Nipton, his destination. He stamped out the few remaining embers that remained form the night prior's fire before setting out on the Westward road.

The sun was high in the sky when Coyote stepped into Nipton. Khans, Slither Kin, Fiends and plenty more varieties of manlike filth seemed to coexist in harmony in this place. However, that only rang true if "harmony" could be defined as running drunken through the streets, committing lewd acts against enslaved women and partaking in senseless acts of violence against passerby. At the very least, it was not open war between the factions. In fact, the tribes reveled in the chaos, relishing it. Coyote didn't care for it. Too much noise and too many people for his tastes.

This was where he was told that his target would be, so he had to stay, if only for a little while. Coyote moseyed into a tiny saloon that he had caught a glimpse of, and immediately headed to the bar. The patrons sneered at him, believing him to be a lawman of some sort. Coyote whistled to attract the attention of the bartender, who sighed in displeasure at the sight of Coyote.

"Looking for Liam Stone. Know him?" Coyote asked, not beating around the bush.

"Sure. What's it to you?" The bartender looked down his nose at Coyote.

"Friend of mine. Been looking to catch up. Know where I can find him?" Despite his words Coyote's intention was quite clear to the bartender.

"Well," the bartender licked his lips, "How much is it worth to you?"

"You're worth exactly one point-forty-four to the head, fella." Coyote snarled.

The bartender tried to keep his cool, "He's 'round back, shooting up."

Coyote turned and left the saloon without another word. He walked around to the back of the establishment, as instructed, and found a man slumped against the wall, high as a kite. He was scrawny and sickly looking, and was practically ankle-deep in empty bottles, hypos and inhalers. Coyote took careful note of the gloves the man happened to be wearing on both hands.

"You Liam Stone?" Coyote called to the man.

The man wearily lifted his head, "Maybe I am." He slurred, "Who are you?"

"I'm Coyote. Pleasure to make your acquaintance. Care to take a walk with me?" Coyote figured that it would be best to do this business on the outskirts of town.

"I'm not going anywhere with you, _lawman_." Stone spat out the last word and hurriedly staggered to his feet.

Once he had his balance, Stone lurched for the pistol on a nearby barrel. Before the intoxicated man could even brush the metal of the weapon, Coyote had his revolver drawn and a bullet between Stone's eyes. Stone's body crumpled to the ground, turning the sand beneath him into a red mess. There he was, another soul claimed by the Mojave. Coyote got right to work, unsheathing the knife from his boot and pulling the man's gloves off. As predicted, there was a large burn scar on the left hand. However, something on Stone's right hand caught Coyote's eye. It was a washer, worn around his finger much like lone would wear a wedding ring. Poor bastard had a family.

Coyote severed the man's hand, and cured it in much the same way as he did the gecko steaks from the night before, and set it carefully in his pack. While rummaging in his kit, Coyote pulled out a pen and a scrap of paper. He scribbled something on it, and put the note in the dead man's remaining hand. Coyote set out away from Nipton immediately. Stone's death went unnoticed amongst the goings-on of the town, and Coyote set a course back East. The wind blew at his back as he walked out of town. He wasn't a killer or a defiler, nor was he a saint or sycophant. He was just a force of nature, weeding out the weak, bowing to the strong.

Private Leonard Stone sat in his barracks in camp Forlorn Hope, reading an old, creased piece of paper by the light of an electric lamp. It was his only connection to the father he never knew. His mother had told him stories about his father. Never good ones; always about his abuse of her and his chem addictions. Private Stone knew full well that his mother married his father only because the vile man had gotten her pregnant, and left not a week after he had been born. Still, he wondered what it would have been like to meet the man who sired him. What a novel idea that was. Stone read the note again, for what could have easily been the thousandth time.

"_Liam Stone_

_Husband_

_Died August 4__th__, 2261_

_Killed by a Coyote."_

Author's Note

A little drabble I felt like writing up, just to take a break from Bloody Goldenrod. I don't know, I had the idea bouncing around in my head for a while now. Something about a protagonist named Coyote in a Western appeals to me very much. But whatever. Read and review.

PCN


End file.
